


of the nothingness inside it.

by SorryFreudianSlip



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pottery is Cool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:13:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorryFreudianSlip/pseuds/SorryFreudianSlip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though some less-than-reputable sources may deny it, Will Graham is a man of some artistic ability. Sure, the piano in the living room was missing a few keys. His pottery wheel was a bit dusty. And yes, maybe his voice was gravelly and faltering from disuse. But the point is, Will Graham isn’t just an anti-social country boy with a worrying amount of dogs. He’s a country boy with some talents.</p><p>Or, Will accidentally seduces Hannibal with his artistic abilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of the nothingness inside it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a shameless excuse to give my favorite character the same hobbies as me. Nope. No sir.
> 
>  
> 
> The title is from Tao Te Ching, as translated by R. T. Ames & D. L. Hall:
> 
> We throw clay to shape a pot,  
> But the utility of the clay pot is a function  
> of the nothingness inside it.
> 
> Enjoy!

Though some less-than-reputable sources may deny it, Will Graham is a man of some artistic ability. Sure, the piano in the living room was missing a few keys. His pottery wheel was a bit dusty. And yes, maybe his voice was gravelly and faltering from disuse. But the point is, Will Graham isn’t just an anti-social country boy with a worrying amount of dogs. He’s a country boy with some talents.

*

“D’you know any Christmas carols?” Abigail tossed a lock of black hair behind her shoulder. She was wearing a blood-red sweater Hannibal bought her for the holidays. Something about the color bringing out the innocence of her eyes.

“Uhm. Not by heart. But I’ve got this.” Will shooed the dogs away to open up the piano bench, finding a small, thick red book. “I stole it from Church.”

“You didn’t.” Abigail grinned. Hannibal looked up from where he was kneading dough in Will’s kitchen. Flour coated his hands.

“Ever the surprise, William.”

“I try.” Will flipped through the pages, looking for Silent Night or Away In A Manger. Something Abigail would know. “The organ player gave me lessons. She scared me. She kept nail clippers on the piano. She hated the sound long nails would make on the keys.” There we are. Joy To The World. “She’d stop the lesson and make you cut them, right then and there.”

“That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I took trumpet.” Beverly called from somewhere on the couch. “The spit thing was the worst. What about you, Alana? You strike me as a flautist sort of gal.”

“Clarinet, actually.” Alana gave a shy little smile. “Did you learn any instruments at school, Abigail?”

“No. I sort of liked the cello, though.”

“Maybe you could take lessons.” Alana said kindly. Will threw a glance at Hannibal, trying not to think of garrotes and guts. Hannibal smiled. Will began to play, making room for Abigail to lean over and squint at the lyrics.

*

“This is a beautiful mug.” Will stroked the foot of the mug, tracing the artist’s stamp on the side. “Local artist?”

“I thought you might like it. Consider it yours. A gift.” Hannibal set the lemon poppy seed cakes on the small table, pouring steamed milk and honey into the mug. “Practiced in ceramics?”

“How’d you guess?” Will said, with a wry smile.

“You immediately felt the foot of the pot, and pinched the inside as though walking through the craft. Your empathy, or familiarity?”

“I took pottery in high school, and up into college. I still have my wheel and tools, though I don’t have time for it anymore. Or a kiln or proper studio. Sometimes I’ll go into one of the Baltimore schools.”

“Interesting.”

“Something to psychoanalyze?”

“Just that the craft suits you. Instinctive. Grounded. Tactile.”

“Isn’t most art?”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. Will was learning to read those little expressions, taking a small victory in Hannibal’s reaction.

“You strike me as a brown clay sort of fellow.”

“Porcelain, actually.” Will said. This was weirdly personal. “I like how soft and subtle it is. Brown clay is…aggressive. Gritty and messy.”

“Working with porcelain is like working with butter, or so I’m told.” Hannibal regarded him over the rim of his cup. “Fragile. Impressionable.”

Will swallowed a too large sip of milk and looked away.

*

Will waved away one of the servers, who was offering a fragrant champagne. He’d thought that pressing himself against the wall of Hannibal’s home would keep him out of the way of the dinner party. He was wrong. Alana (his only ally in the sea of socialites) was caught in a debate with a beautiful lawyer, or professor, or something. Will sipped at his scotch, which was worth several times more than the jacket he was wearing.

“Ah, my friend. Are you enjoying yourself?” Hannibal strode toward him, his eyes practically glittering. He was wearing a beautiful suit of a rich lavender, surprisingly bright for the season and for the tastes of the party. He wore it like a second skin, of course, and was only more admired for it. With Hannibal came a swarm of socialites and suitors at his shoulders, waiting for his regard. They eyed Will critically, murmuring behind their champagne flutes at his shoes or hair. Will smiled tightly.

“Trying to. You look good.” That wasn’t the right way to say it. Will winced. “I mean. Um.”

An older woman with a sharp bob chortled, smacking Hannibal on the arm. Will nearly jumped at the sound.

“He certainly does. Thank god he’s finally struck with inspiration! The artist finally has his muse again.” She was gesturing and speaking to everyone who had made a small semi-circle around them while Will was distracted.

“Well, these affairs are not for everybody. Sometimes the muse cannot recognize the work he has inspired.” Hannibal said, with a fond glance to the woman. Will chuckled nervously, stepping closer to Hannibal.

“Uhm, it’s a lovely party.”

“But?”

“Well, I’ve, I’ve got a lot of work at home, so I was thinking maybe I’d ah…leave you to your crowd.” Will shrugged one shoulder, trying not to be rude. Hannibal looked disappointed, which surprised Will. Hannibal leaned in closer, putting a hand on Will’s arm.

“If you must. I’ll simply endeavor to steal you away at another time.”

Will ducked his head to hide his blush. One of the people tapped Hannibal on the shoulder. He sighed theatrically. “Duty calls.”

Will grinned, and hummed a few bars of “Votre Toast.” Hannibal brightened up, delighted.

*

“Are you religious, Will?”

Will looked up from the book of poetry he had been flipping throught. It was in French, the only other language Will could understand. Well, he had a few words of Italian.

At his confusion, Hannibal pointed to the book. “Victor Hugo. Too personal a question?”

“No, just…” Will put a bookmark on the page. “I’m not sure which answer you’d like.”

“Whatever answer you’d like to give.”

“I’m not. I’ve tried to be. Why do you ask?”

“The Hugo, of course. And I remembered you mentioned something about piano lessons, and a stolen music book.” Hannibal smiled, leaning against his desk.

“Oh. Well, my father took me to Sunday school, you know? Just somewhere to put me, I guess. Um, and that’s where I took piano lessons.”

“Did you like it?”

“Not really. I liked the stories. But they were just stories to me. Whenever I’d try to pray, or believe…” Will shrugged. “Just felt disingenuous.”

“Trouble with trust?”

“When it comes to a man with a name always spelled with a capital letter, yes.”

“Ours are, too. Did you learn the keys on the organ?”

“Oh, hell no. No.” Will laughed. “Would you trust a 10 year old with something like that? No, it was a plastic keyboard.”

Hannibal straightened up, walking towards Will in a curved line. The direct approach made him tense. He reached for the book, listening to Will’s breathing. He ignored Will’s attempts to pass it to him, letting Will hold it as he opened it. He traced the lines on the page over Will’s shoulder. Will went quiet.

“I learned my scales on a harpsichord.” Hannibal turned a page. Will gasped, releasing the air he had been holding in one nervous chuckle.

“Well, I trust you as a child more than I trust myself as an adult.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, meeting Will’s gaze. He snapped the book shut, putting it back on the shelf.

“Oh, I doubt that.”

*

“Hello, Will. I thought I’d stop by and-”

Hannibal stared at Will’s hands, up to the elbows in porcelain slip. He was wearing a flannel about two sizes too big for him, splattered in clay. Will wiped his hands on his shirt, smiling bashfully.

“I was just throwing a bowl. Sorry. You brought food?” His dogs were wagging their tails, but were otherwise quiet and well-behaved. The shirt slipped down Will’s shoulder. Hannibal cleared his throat.

“Just a bit of breakfast. A bowl, you said?”

“Yeah, I just started centering. Shows how out of practice I am.” He gestured at his shirt. “Um, come in.”

*

Will had an electric wheel, which was altogether surprising.

“I took you for a manual type of potter.” Will put two fingers against the centered ball of clay, spinning the wheel a tad faster as he set a hole and began to widen it. “As always, surprising.”

“I like to control the speed a bit more. And my legs get tired. And I’m kind of short for a lot of kick-wheels.” Will shrugged one shoulder, attempting to get his glasses back in place without touching them with clay. He pulled once, forming an effortless cylinder. Hannibal stared at his hands, fascinated.

“May I?”

Will turned to him slightly, not taking his eyes off the pot. “What?”

Hannibal rolled up his sleeves and sat behind him. He nestled his chin into Will’s shoulder, looking down at the wheel. He gently moved his hands to cover Will’s. Will froze entirely.

Hannibal nudged the side of Will’s glasses with his nose and waited.

Will began to work again, and Hannibal’s hands followed every motion. There was nothing but the thrum of an old wheel and Hannibal’s lips on his.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream with me about these two at my tumblr: sorryfreudianslip.tumblr.com


End file.
